


The most beautiful story ever told

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fairy Tales, Family Fluff, M/M, Parentlock, Sappy, Storytelling, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9701843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: For Devan's birthday, a fluffy parentlock tale. After a few happy years together, it's time to find Rosie's favourite fairy tale... but with her being their child, it should not come as a surprise if the result is unexpected.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Devan (aka sherlock on Tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Devan+%28aka+sherlock+on+Tumblr%29).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own a single thing. A. N. This is not a Valentine’s day story. This is a story for an occasion way more important: Devan’s birthday. If you’re wondering who Devan is, she’s Sherlock on Tumblr, and a beacon to so many of us. This is my tiny offer. Happy birthday and many happy returns, Dev!!! T

A few years had passed since John had been shot (again) and had the most nonsensical dream during his near-death experience. Convalescing alone and taking care of a baby at the same time would be beyond anyone’s ability to cope, so he’d moved back home (aka 221B, Baker Street) without anyone marvelling or even discussing it, like a river finally flowing into the sea.

That, somehow, their renewed cohabitation ended in the boys finally admitting their love to each other, elicited only a number of variations on ‘Bloody finally!” from anyone who knew them. Well, technically, Sherlock already had confessed his love, while John lay unconscious and bleeding. His blogger had sort-of heard him, too, but sadly his brain had turned that into his worst nightmare.

Once John was conscious, though, there had been lots of explanations, assurances, and gentle ribbing. “I’m so flattered you think we’re a family of superheroes, John, but seriously, throwing myself out of the window with no previous plan in place and landing on a boat in the sea without a scratch is above even my abilities,” Sherlock pointed out with a giggle, making his beloved blush. 

The doctor had always thought he had to choose – Sherlock or domestic life. He found out he didn’t have to. Sharing the consulting detective’s bedroom (and his bed), with Rosie in the room he’d once called his and the baby monitor on, he was starting to realise that yes, happiness was in his grasp. This was what he’d always wanted – and he could have it.   

The consulting detective hadn’t objected to baby-proofing the flat, like John had dreaded he might. “Don’t be ridiculous, love, I’ve always wanted you safe and happy. Rosie is a part of you – besides being adorable in her own right – do you really think I would do anything that would put her at risk?” he remarked, when his beloved very tentatively breached the subject. “Besides, you couldn’t live here if she was in danger, and I’ve endured your absence as long as I could and then some.”

That conversation finished with a passionate kiss and a call to a couple of people who owed Sherlock favours (who didn’t, really?). The flat was baby-proofed in a jiffy. A bit slower, but to Mrs. Hudson’s great delight, went the renovation of 221C – and the getting rid of mould the consulting detective did not carry down himself – to change it into a proper laboratory. Hazardous chemicals, random body parts and contaminated milk couldn’t be left in the kitchen anymore. (John would never admit he secretly missed _that_ ).

Of course, raising a child with Sherlock Holmes had consequences. Like Rosie’s third word, just after ‘Da’ and ‘Papa’ (which caused the self-declared sociopathic sleuth – not that anyone believed him anymore, not even Sally – to tear up), being ‘dull’. Apparently, their daughter took exception to watching the news. That shocked John a little, but made him grin like a loon too.

As for the detective, he crooned, “Yes, Miss Rosie, very very dull. There’s not a single interesting crime today,” before changing channel in search of something more suitable for her taste. Unsatisfied with the telly’s offering, he ended up putting on a DVD of an old cartoon with bees as main characters. Since Sherlock had gifted her with a bee plushie, she carried it everywhere, much to John’s amusement and the sleuth’s delight.     

Later on, when Miss Rosie had been put to bed, with Bee next to her (the creativity in naming would come later), John would giggle until he was breathless and remark, “I should be glad her next word wasn’t murder, I suppose. That would have required some explanations at the daycare.”

Of course, Mrs. Hudson had offered to keep Rosie when they were both busy. But the doctor thought that meeting other children would be beneficial to her. Even if Sherlock sniffed a bit about it being a silly assumption, as a seven years older sibling didn’t really count as age peer, and he’d turned out perfectly fine, thanks, ultimately John had been able to persuade him. As long as the daycare had cameras installed in every corner and Mycroft’s minions monitored them constantly, that is. One heard all too many nightmare tales of abusive carers, and between those and the enemies the boys gained with each case, anything else would have been simply reckless.

The British Government had listened to the request with a small smile, and when Sherlock tried to offer a number of favours in exchange for it, he waved his concerns away. “Don’t be stupid, little brother. She’s family, and you know I don’t require incentives to check on relatives. She’ll be as safe as Charlotte, I assure you.”

The brothers had never discussed the new relationship between Sherlock and his beloved doctor, which had changed a few weeks ago. After all, the daycare issue hadn’t arisen while John was still convalescing and Sherlock couldn’t seem to make himself leave any of his Watsons alone for more than five minutes. It was so casually mentioned, no questions, no teasing, no “You’ll regret getting involved,” – which the sleuth had honestly feared from his brother. Just stated as a fact and taken as basis for conduct.  The detective couldn’t help the relief washing through him. Mycroft understood.

They were happy for years, deliriously happy. There were cases, and Sherlock playing lullabies on the violin – which for some reason seemed to ensure she slept through the night. John made that thing with the peas (actually a recipe he’d learned in Afghanistan), and they did their level best to avoid the journalists, to keep their daughter from being ‘thrown to the wolves’, though the detective would comment, “As much as I despise them, this is the first understandable behaviour they’ve ever exhibited. Rosie is perfect, certainly their readers would be blessed to catch a glimpse of her.”

The moment of the day both enjoyed the most was bedtime. (No, not _that_ , get your mind out of the gutter – though of course there was much lovemaking in their life…they had  a lot of making up for lost time to do.) No matter if they were on a case, or busy with whatever else, when it was time for Rosie to be put to bed they’d drop everything and somehow reappear at home. It turned out that properly motivated (as in needing to close a case in time and avoid disappointing Rosie, who expected her lullaby) Sherlock could be even more brilliant than ever.

John was the designated storyteller, though. Obviously, some would say. Their daughter loved the stories, with John making all sort of silly voices for the characters, enlisting his beloved’s participation for the most scary, roaring ones (rather than being spooked by that, Rosie giggled herself to breathlessness) or the occasional necessary musical accompaniment.   

She was a bright child, and grew up so fast. One moment she was babbling, and the following she was asking endless questions, which delighted the consulting detective. Encouraging her to inquire and discover on her own (but with the due precautions, for once) was something they bonded instantly over, and the new, harmless experimenting going on in 221B brought the brightest smile to John’s lips. (No. 57, according to Sherlock’s classification of his beloved’s smiles, which was only elicited when Rosie and he worked in concert to earn it.)

John was honestly curious about which fairy tale would end up being his daughter’s favourite. Really, he should have expected it. By the time Rosie had outgrown simple rhymes, and should have started being eager for things with actual plots, like the classic fairy tales, she was already too picky to be content with Sleeping Beauty.

“Why not gloves?” she asked, frowning and leaving the bed. Before John could complain about it, or follow, she was back, clutching Sherlock’s heavy, leather ones, as if her da could miss the simple solution to stop the princess from pricking her fingers.

Most of the other classic fairytales were met with similar objections, eliciting apparently more annoyance than interest. Little Red Riding Hood elicited a haughty sniff and a serious, “Is she _blind_?” Honestly, papa insisted that people never observed, but the little girl of the tale didn’t even see. She’d met the wolf not long before – and she didn’t recognise him? It was as if she couldn’t recognise her da just because he changed jumpers.

Sherlock’s, “She _does_ have a point, John,” made Rosie grin blindingly. John sighed and agreed with his loves, starting to suspect his usually lovely bedtime tales ritual had just become a much more harrowing experience. They would find a story their daughter would absolutely adore and want to hear for months, though, if it was the last thing he did, the doctor silently vowed.

Her comment for the Little Mermaid was, “She’s not very good at mimes, is she?” before once again getting up from bed to demonstrate how she would communicate her tale obviously enough that even the most slow-witted prince would understand.

The sleuth applauded her, prompting the child to bow. Not that they would ever allow her to come to harm, but if ever a criminal did manage to get a hold of her, it seemed like she would manage to clue people about what was happening. They’d already established code words long ago, to her great delight. It wouldn’t do for her to grow up like her da and get unquestioningly into any black car she saw.  

And about that, Snow White didn’t go any better. “Didn’t her da tell her not to take things from strangers?” the child queried, exasperated when the princess trusted any old woman coming along.

John looked at his partner for help. Applying logic to fairy tales, despite all the previous experiences, which really should have trained him for that, still left him floundering.

Sherlock rumbled, “You’re smart, bee, of course you know better. Snow White… well, she used to be a princess. She grew up thinking people should cater to her whims. If the kingdom wasn’t at war – and believe me, they would have mentioned if it was – it didn’t enter her or anyone else’s mind that someone might be daring enough to hurt her. Of course, this doesn’t mean that the king shouldn’t have foreseen improbable events and prepared for them. But I’m afraid he wasn’t a very smart king.”

That settled it, and Rosie smiled and nodded wisely, preparing to hear the rest. Still, there was no way this would become her favourite tale. The sleuth had almost concluded his explanation with ‘just look whom he’d married’, but bit his lips in time. However deserved by the anonymous king, the jab might hit way too close to John’s heart – marrying a woman of questionable morality when the love of your life is dead seemed to be something even the best of men were prone to – and he didn’t want to upset his love.

Still, his beloved’s marriage to Mary had resulted in Rosie being born, something Sherlock would never have been able to offer. She was so perfect – more Watson for him to love! – that, if he’d believed in fate, the consulting detective would have believed all their heartbreak had been ordained (and so, so worth it) for her to be born. Since Snow White’s dad already had her, being blind to his new wife being a danger to his child really had no excuse.   

The following day, still in bed, Sherlock proposed to his newly awakened love, “I’ve been thinking… would it be okay if I took over as story teller for Rosie?”

“Sure, if you want,” John agreed, nuzzling him.

“I would prefer if you didn’t attend story time, though. I have an hypothesis I need to test,” the detective mumbled.

That raised all kinds of alarm in the doctor’s head. “Honey,” he said sternly, “we’ve talked about it. No case files for Rosie until she’s in middle school at least.” 

The consulting detective pouted. “I know, I know. And I will stick to that plan, even if I believe middle school is too far. I was solving cases when I was eight – well, trying to, if that idiot of a Detective Jones would have just listened, Carl Powers’ murderer would have been discovered back then, and who knows what would have happened to Moriarty then. Anyway, I am not going to involve Rosie in any current case, I swear,” he assured.

“Thank you,” John replied, smiling and instinctively petting his hair, “I’m just worried she might get nightmares if she’s acquainted with actual crime this soon – we Watsons are prone to that, you know. As for what would happen to Moriarty … I’m afraid it would have been even worse. He wouldn’t have been playing with you, revenge is serious business. But if you’re not going to tell Rosie anything that I wouldn’t approve of, why shouldn’t I be present as usual?”

“Do you want the truth?” Sherlock whispered, not looking at him.

“Most certainly,” his lover replied earnestly, briefly hugging him tight with the arm not busy with Sherlock’s hair. They’d had enough lies between them, and it had only hurt them both beyond words. Since they’d finally had the bravery to admit the truth – all the truths unspoken for way too long – not only had they been happier, John felt as if he could finally breathe. Whatever was running inside his beloved’s brain, airing it couldn’t but help.

“I…wanted to tell her something new. Not one of Grimm’s tales, or Perrault’s, or anyone else. One special fairy tale just for her. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. But since you’re the writer in the family, well, I didn’t want to have to worry about your judgement,” the consulting detective finally confessed. 

Before John could reply, their door was opened by an enthusiastic Rosie in her bee pyjamas. That was a passion she’d not grown out of yet, to her papa’s delight.  True, they’d been lazing in bed way too long. It was time to start the day. There was work, and kindergarten to get to, and 221C had a new set of ears for Sherlock to play with. Rosie was particularly eager to see one of her new friends, a somewhat shy girl who clung to her since the first day.

The day passed quickly – and still, many times through it, the doctor found himself wondering if his old quips against Sherlock’s blog had really hurt so deep that now his love didn’t feel comfortable inventing tales in front of him. Did he expect John to sneer that this was the most boring story he’d ever heard?

He clearly needed to apologise, but wasn’t sure how to do properly. In the end, he opted to be sneaky (they both were if the situation called for it):  he would allow Sherlock his privacy, but eavesdrop, and then offer all the praise he was sure the new fairytale would deserve.

Come evening, Sherlock looked relieved when his love explained to Rosie that, for once, her papa alone would take over as storyteller. She didn’t object, so they went up to her room, and he tucked her in bed before starting his tale. If the old baby monitor was turned up, and properly hidden under the bed (bless Rosie for not needing them to check for monsters, all too aware that monsters would be too terrified of her parents to dare lurk in 221B), the sleuth didn’t notice.

When he came back down to find John’s eyes shining with unshed tears, the detective naturally panicked. “What’s wrong, love? What did I do?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” his love croaked, “absolutely nothing. I just…didn’t expect that.”

One look around, and the sleuth saw the baby monitor and deduced it all. “You heard me,” he mumbled, blushing.

“I was curious,” John replied, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. “And you… you told her our love story. You quoted my blog, and your phone is here. Do you know my whole blog by heart?”

“I know _everything_ about you by heart,” Sherlock admitted, an odd mix of embarrassment and pride in his voice. “Absolutely everything, John.”

Neither could have said who started the following kiss, deep and passionate, but it was the only possible outcome of such a moment.

When they were forced to part by sheer lack of oxygen, after a few panting breaths, Sherlock remarked, grinning, “Did you notice how she didn’t object to a single word, or call my characters idiots, even if sometimes I wonder if I have been? I think we found her favourite story.”

“If you’ve been an idiot, I’ve been worse, but I think Rosie knows better than that. Though I demand to be allowed back during her bedtime, because I want to hear it a million times too, and I don’t want to have to eavesdrop,” his blogger declared, dropping another butterfly-soft kiss on his beloved’s collarbone.

“As long as I get more kisses after Rosie’s fallen asleep,” his love bargained, cutting off a moan.

“That and more. I think it’s time for us too to go to bed, what do you say, love?” John offered, winking at him.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock rumbled, a hungry look in his eyes.


End file.
